


Soldier Poet King

by IcyEarth (NovisMusica)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Song Lyrics, Song fic, elias is jonah so yaknow, this is shockingly tame for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovisMusica/pseuds/IcyEarth
Summary: Monsters can feel things too, as it turns out.They wish they hadn't learned the hard way.Takes place the day before Panopticon.
Kudos: 10





	Soldier Poet King

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all this is an extremely short ramble, mostly me trying to figure out how to write emotional tone. It's pretty bad I'll be honest.

Soldier

_'There will come a soldier_

_Who carries a mighty sword_

_He will tear your city down, o lei o lai o lord_

_O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord_

_He will tear your city down, o lei o lai o lord'_

How many people has he hurt? What’s happened to them? Any of them?

The words spin in circles in his head, taunting him to just Know the answer. He could, he can feel the information reaching for his consciousness, asking for permission to enter, but he doesn’t want to know.

He’s been recording statements for nearly thirteen hours, and the beast is nowhere near full. He’s tired, to an extent, but more than that he’s _guilty_. Guilty because it won’t ever stop, he’s going to hurt people and hurt more people and one day he will end up like Gertrude, but the worst thing of all is there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop it. Nothing at all.

The remaining empty tape recorders stare up at him from his desk like they’re judging him, and he knows he’s imagining it, but it feels like they want him to know that even inanimate (to an extent, anyway) objects know he has failed.

Poet

_‘There will come a poet_

_Whose weapon is his word_

_He will slay you with his tongue,_ _o lei o lai o lord_

_O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord_

_He will slay you with his tongue,_ _o lei o lai o lord’_

He is very, very sick of making tea. He used to enjoy it, back when he had other people to make tea for, and making the tea was a welcome break in his busy schedule, but his own order seems boring and repetitive to make exclusively for weeks. 

Boil the water.

Pour it in a mug.

Put in the tea bag.

Wait a minute or four.

Throw out the tea bag.

When the tea is done, he decides to record another poem. Peter is out, so he has literally nothing better to do. And where else is he going to go? Home? That’s here now, apparently.

He knows Jon listens to all the tapes. He sort of hopes Jon will listen to his poetry, if only to know Jon is hearing his voice, but mostly he’s apathetic. Apathetic about everything these days. In order to not be lonely you first have to care about other people, and Peter is doing his _damnedest_ to make him lonely.

It’s working

King

_‘There will come a ruler_

_Whose brow is laid in thorn_

_Smeared with oil like David's boy,_ _o lei o lai o lord_

_O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord_

_Smeared with oil like David's boy,_ _o lei o lai o lord’_

Playing them like fiddles was easier than it should have been. Sure, he had over a hundred years of practice when it came to manipulating people, but they were so caught up in each other that even once they realized he couldn’t be trusted they did next to nothing about it. None of them could step back from the day-to-day panics enough to look and see the big picture. If they had, surely they would have seen where this was going ages ago. Peter was a hilarious wrench in the plan, but not nearly enough to really set anything off course further than could be fixed.

It was going to be perfect.

Was prison fun? No, not exactly, but it wasn’t much worse the first or third or eighth time around, and this time he had leverage. He had control. He wasn’t the stranger but he was the puppet master and all the puppets had performed beautifully. 

His life’s work, coming together before his many, many eyes. He felt glorious.

_‘O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord_

_He will tear your city down,_ _o lei o lai, o_

_O lei o lai, o lei, o lai, o_

_O lei o lai, o lei, o lai, o_

_O lei o lai, o lei, o lai, o lei, o lai, o’_

The sky was looking back.


End file.
